Ah. Well, I am running on the memory of things I learned more than 35 years ago, so error is very likely.
That said, could the difference in pronunciation be a regional variance? Ghent and Groningen are not that far apart, but the spoken language can be VERY different. And that's to say nothing of Afrikaans, or Fries, etc.
The smells are especially poignant transporters to another place and time. I recently smelled a seasoning that took me right back to the cramped apartment we shared with my mom when she left my dad, before she was killed by a drunk driver. It was SO strong, the memory that smell recalled to my awareness. It was as seasoning blend I smelled a lot when she made Hamburger Helper for the 6 of us for dinner. There wasn't money for meat and potatoes every day on a truck stop waitress's pay. My 25 year old son now has a thing for Hamburger Helper which I fully indulge because it reminds me of my mother.
Cori, thank you for your poignant, vivid comment. I can only imagine the grief and heartache you must have endured because of such trying times. That said, very often, our characters are forged in these circumstances. They can enable future success and happiness, and make these good things more sweet—because we know the difference.
And when something takes us back to those times, we see them with the perspective of what they drove us to create. So, we embrace the memories and wear them like an invisible red badge of courage.
This comment was one of the first things I saw this morning. I warmed me more than my morning cup of coffee! I appreciate your kind words and encouragement.
This is beautiful, both the concept and the telling. “Heimwee” is the ache of time made holy. Not the kind of homesickness that longs to return, but the kind that knows return is impossible, and still loves anyway.
You’ve captured that mirage of memory perfectly: the way certain smells, songs, or objects (like your grandmother’s paring knife) resurrect entire atmospheres, not only trigger recollection. I would add that “heimwee” often hits hardest in the moments we think we should be happiest: holding a child, flipping through old photos, a birthday morning. Because joy is never unaccompanied once we’ve lived long enough, it drags memory behind it like a veil.
For me, it’s a creaking floorboard in my childhood home, or the particular shade of dusk from a street that no longer exists. “Heimwee” isn’t just for what was, but for the version of us that could still live it.
And yet, as you said so eloquently, that ache is a kind of gratitude in disguise. Grief for beauty lived is still proof that we’ve touched the miracle.
Oh, Tamara, thank you for sharing your reaction and thoughts! I hoped you might comment and share your insight. You clearly caught my sentiment and gave it greater depth, "...joy is never unaccompanied once we’ve lived long enough, it drags memory behind it like a veil."
One aspect I didn't touch on is we can also feel heimwee for what might have been, but never was.
I’m glad you brought that up because yes, I thought about it, heimwee should not be tethered to memory. It seems to be the ghost of unlived possibilities, as you put it.
It’s the life we glimpsed but didn’t get to live, the fork in the road we’ll never walk. Sometimes I think it could cling just as tightly to the phantoms as it does to the photographs. The friend you almost became closer to. The city you almost moved to. The version of yourself you almost grew into. It’s a homesickness for parallel lives — each one a closed door you still dream of knocking on.
In that way, heimwee is nostalgia, a quiet honouring of all the selves we were brave enough to imagine, even if we never met them.
Beautifully said. And, I suppose it rolls up to the title of my Stack. "Opmerkingen" means observations, at least as I, the "Opmerker" perceive the. This piece is a reflection on the inner workings of the mind.
Now, that's kind of a hard one. I am a terribly slow writer, partly because I am most comfortable working out an idea over many days, sometimes weeks. Also, after working at my computer all day, even when I WANT to write something, I want to get away from my desk more. That said, I take your challenge to heart. I have a couple ideas for more posts, and will now focus on getting something out sooner than later.
I hear you… and honestly, slow writing is often the best kind. It ferments instead of evaporating.
I love the craftsmanship of letting an idea ripen over days or weeks, giving it the dignity of patience most people no longer allow themselves. Fast writing might capture urgency, but slow writing captures truth.
That said, I love that you’re embracing the challenge. Don’t rush the craft, just crack a window and let a little fresh air in! One post at a time, your pace, your depth. We’ll be here, ready to savour it when it arrives.
Techically, it's pronounced more like HAME-via.
Ah. Well, I am running on the memory of things I learned more than 35 years ago, so error is very likely.
That said, could the difference in pronunciation be a regional variance? Ghent and Groningen are not that far apart, but the spoken language can be VERY different. And that's to say nothing of Afrikaans, or Fries, etc.
The smells are especially poignant transporters to another place and time. I recently smelled a seasoning that took me right back to the cramped apartment we shared with my mom when she left my dad, before she was killed by a drunk driver. It was SO strong, the memory that smell recalled to my awareness. It was as seasoning blend I smelled a lot when she made Hamburger Helper for the 6 of us for dinner. There wasn't money for meat and potatoes every day on a truck stop waitress's pay. My 25 year old son now has a thing for Hamburger Helper which I fully indulge because it reminds me of my mother.
Cori, thank you for your poignant, vivid comment. I can only imagine the grief and heartache you must have endured because of such trying times. That said, very often, our characters are forged in these circumstances. They can enable future success and happiness, and make these good things more sweet—because we know the difference.
And when something takes us back to those times, we see them with the perspective of what they drove us to create. So, we embrace the memories and wear them like an invisible red badge of courage.
How wonderful to get an Opmerkingen essay in my email inbox. This is sublime and sets me off on a long and winding road.
This comment was one of the first things I saw this morning. I warmed me more than my morning cup of coffee! I appreciate your kind words and encouragement.
This is beautiful, both the concept and the telling. “Heimwee” is the ache of time made holy. Not the kind of homesickness that longs to return, but the kind that knows return is impossible, and still loves anyway.
You’ve captured that mirage of memory perfectly: the way certain smells, songs, or objects (like your grandmother’s paring knife) resurrect entire atmospheres, not only trigger recollection. I would add that “heimwee” often hits hardest in the moments we think we should be happiest: holding a child, flipping through old photos, a birthday morning. Because joy is never unaccompanied once we’ve lived long enough, it drags memory behind it like a veil.
For me, it’s a creaking floorboard in my childhood home, or the particular shade of dusk from a street that no longer exists. “Heimwee” isn’t just for what was, but for the version of us that could still live it.
And yet, as you said so eloquently, that ache is a kind of gratitude in disguise. Grief for beauty lived is still proof that we’ve touched the miracle.
Thank you for this!
Oh, Tamara, thank you for sharing your reaction and thoughts! I hoped you might comment and share your insight. You clearly caught my sentiment and gave it greater depth, "...joy is never unaccompanied once we’ve lived long enough, it drags memory behind it like a veil."
One aspect I didn't touch on is we can also feel heimwee for what might have been, but never was.
I’m glad you brought that up because yes, I thought about it, heimwee should not be tethered to memory. It seems to be the ghost of unlived possibilities, as you put it.
It’s the life we glimpsed but didn’t get to live, the fork in the road we’ll never walk. Sometimes I think it could cling just as tightly to the phantoms as it does to the photographs. The friend you almost became closer to. The city you almost moved to. The version of yourself you almost grew into. It’s a homesickness for parallel lives — each one a closed door you still dream of knocking on.
In that way, heimwee is nostalgia, a quiet honouring of all the selves we were brave enough to imagine, even if we never met them.
Beautifully said. And, I suppose it rolls up to the title of my Stack. "Opmerkingen" means observations, at least as I, the "Opmerker" perceive the. This piece is a reflection on the inner workings of the mind.
Wonderful! Write more :)
Now, that's kind of a hard one. I am a terribly slow writer, partly because I am most comfortable working out an idea over many days, sometimes weeks. Also, after working at my computer all day, even when I WANT to write something, I want to get away from my desk more. That said, I take your challenge to heart. I have a couple ideas for more posts, and will now focus on getting something out sooner than later.
I hear you… and honestly, slow writing is often the best kind. It ferments instead of evaporating.
I love the craftsmanship of letting an idea ripen over days or weeks, giving it the dignity of patience most people no longer allow themselves. Fast writing might capture urgency, but slow writing captures truth.
That said, I love that you’re embracing the challenge. Don’t rush the craft, just crack a window and let a little fresh air in! One post at a time, your pace, your depth. We’ll be here, ready to savour it when it arrives.
I have not heard of that, but I'll look it up. Thank you for the suggestion!
Thank you! If you're ever near DFW, HMU. It would be fun.